“Give her! To whom?”
“To one who loves her dearly; and, what is more, is dearly loved in return, old man.”
“Who is he?” reiterated Colville.
“One who is worthy already of the hand of the best ae daughter of any laird in Fife; and who, ere to-morrow’s sun sets, will be wealthier than yourself.”
“Who—who—who is he?” cried the old man, stamping in a paroxysm of rage.
“Arthur Winton!” said the stranger.
The anger of Colville, when this unpleasing name was uttered, almost overwhelmed him.
“Out of my doors, you rascally impostor,” at length he was able to exclaim; “out of my doors! Swith away to the minion who sent you here, an you would wish not to taste the discipline of the whip, or to escape being worried by the tykes.”
To the stranger, the anger of the old man, instead of fear, seemed only to occasion merriment. He laughed so heartily at the violence into which the rage of his host seduced him, that the tears actually stood in his eyes—conduct that naturally increased the passion which it fed on. The servants stood looking on in silent wonder; and Edith, startled by the noise of the discordant sounds, returned to the place in wonder and alarm.
An unexpected termination was suddenly put to the scene by the entrance of Arthur Winton. His cheek was flushed with haste; and he was so breathless that he could hardly exclaim,—